


Under His Care

by treksickfic (cheeriofrog)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: A little angst, A little pining, Caretaking, Common Cold, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Sick James T. Kirk, Sick Spock, Sickfic, caretaker Jim Kirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheeriofrog/pseuds/treksickfic
Summary: A routine survey mission becomes complicated by a virus sweeping through the Enterprise, taking down Spock in its wake. Vulcans do not catch cold...until they do. And it's only a common cold...until it isn't. The Captain is in control.An old-fashioned sickfic. Not much suffering, just a little misery. No slash but it does turn Spirk-y towards the end.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 24
Kudos: 173





	1. The Onset

If he hadn’t been watching Spock’s face while pondering his next chess move, Jim Kirk would have missed the obvious signs - obvious to him at least. His first officer’s tells during play were subtle, almost unnoticeable on a Vulcan, except for someone who made it a habit to observe him as often as he could. It was part of Kirk’s nature; don’t be reactive, let the first impulse recede, observe for hidden motive and underlying intention and then act accordingly. All necessary qualities for both a starship captain and a formidable Tri-D chess opponent. But Spock was off his game tonight. He’d been acting out of character all evening, his focus turned inward - not distracted but not completely present.

He paused with his hand over his neutral level knight and flicked his eyes to Spock’s face, waiting for his reaction. But instead of a more habitual tell, Spock rubbed his nose briefly. Kirk frowned and placed his piece. That was a new one, what could it mean? And before Kirk could speak, Spock angled away from the board, only a slight movement of his head betraying the fact that he’d sneezed...twice. Both completely silent except for a weary sigh and a sniffle at the end. And at this their eyes met. 

Kirk shook his head, feeling a brief ripple of frustration pass through him. _Strange._ He tried to rearrange his expression into one of sympathy and understanding. He knew it was best to make no comment. 

Spock crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, his chin lifted, eyes focused on the opposite wall. Kirk knew this posture well. Spock was on his guard, steeling himself against any insults or cruel jokes. Kirk wanted to reassure him. It was only the two of them tonight, there would be no bridge bravado or mocking laughter at his expense, but he couldn’t quite put it all into words.

“Your move, Spock,” he said instead.

“I am aware.”

The bridge of Spock’s nose wrinkled and he took a deep breath as he leaned forward to consider his move. Kirk could study him at leisure now. Spock had not lost his rigid posture, but his shoulders sagged slightly, lips parted as he breathed, lines of fatigue etched into his face. He’d probably been pushing himself too hard, not taking regular meals or sleeping enough, as he tended to do. Spock gave a small shiver, then his eyes unfocused and he turned from the board again. It was a single sneeze this time, more forceful, that he tried and failed to stifle. He looked defeated somehow and more than a little miserable as he produced a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. Kirk couldn’t let it pass without comment.

“Under the weather tonight, Spock?” Noting his look of confusion, Kirk held off his inevitable question with an upraised hand. “What I meant to ask is, are you feeling ill?”

“Negative, Captain,” he said. “I feel quite well…” His breath hitched and he bent forward with yet another sneeze, this one unrestrained that triggered a small fit of coughing.

“Yes, you sound it,” Kirk said.

“My apologies, Captain,” Spock said, his words muffled behind the handkerchief. “It seems something is provoking this untoward reaction, perhaps an allergen of some sort.”

Kirk scoffed. Spock had near-perfect control of his emotions and his physiological reactions. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure he’d heard his first officer sneeze more than two or three times since he’d known him. There was more than dust getting up his nose this evening.

“Or perhaps,” Kirk said, pushing the board to one side, “And mind you, this is only a theory, but perhaps you’re coming down with something?”

He knew it was inevitable. During their stop at the Castian outpost the week prior, a science team boarded, bringing with them fifty years of combined experience in xenobotany and xenobiology and a virus that threatened to put a halt to the entire planetary survey of Trion IV. 

As the illness spread unchecked, as mutated rhinoviruses always seemed to, Kirk watched miserable crew members slouch off duty shifts, he’d consulted with Bones in Sickbay where there seemed to be a steady stream of patients in and out, and each day the corridors grew increasingly empty and silent as more crew members stayed confined to their quarters. The last thing he’d expected was that his stalwart first officer would be the first of his senior officers to succumb. 

“C’mon Spock,” he said. “I’d recognize one of McCoy’s handkerchiefs anywhere. You’ve visited sickbay recently because you’re ill. It happens to everyone, nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Embarrassment is a human emotion,” Spock said, managing to look embarrassed nonetheless.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“On the contrary, you have not asked a question.”

Kirk sighed and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Perhaps Vulcans couldn’t lie, but they could damn well equivocate when given the opportunity. 

“All right then, I’ll be direct. You sound as if you have a cold. The same blasted cold that has taken down a third of my crew. Would I be correct in this assumption?”

“Vulcans do not catch cold.”

“But humans do, with annoying regularity and you are--"

“--half human.” Spock finished Kirk's sentence with a sigh. “A fact of which you frequently remind me.” And then leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table, head bowed, all pretense gone.

Kirk rearranged the chess pieces on the bottom board with an audible clink, if only to give himself something to do. 

“I’ve got a good mind to park the ship,” he said, staring at the top of Spock’s head. “Just keep her in orbit for a week until this virus burns through the whole crew. We’ve spent hours reshuffling duty rosters because we’re running out of personnel who are healthy enough to go planetside and now-” 

He stood, slamming the flat of his hand against the table as he straightened. Spock reached out to keep a piece from falling over. 

“-and now if my science officer is down for the count? We might as well scrub the whole survey.” 

Kirk pressed his fingers to his lips to prevent himself from saying anything more. He’d started his rant in a teasing tone but found his frustration grew as he spoke. 

As Kirk watched, trying to calm himself, Spock took his time rising from his chair and straightening to his full height. He stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back. The effort it was costing him was noticeable in his quivering shoulders. A tiny movement, but by this point Kirk was so attuned to Spock's body language that it was all he could focus on. 

“Captain, I must apologize,” he said.

Well, he hadn't been expecting that.

“Apologize? Whatever for?”

“It is obvious from both your demeanor and your statements toward me that you are angry. I can only assume it is my illness and the resulting dereliction of duty that has upset you. I accept full responsibility for the failure of our mission and I will do whatever is in my power to salvage it.” 

Spock swallowed noticeably a few times and then gathered himself again. It was a long speech for someone not feeling well.

“At ease, Spock.” Kirk walked around the table to stand in front of his first officer. “Yes, I was angry, I admit it. But I'm not angry at you, it’s the situation we’ve found ourselves in. You can't help it if you're sick.”

He clasped his first officer’s shoulders in a display of support. The tension in Spock’s body eased under his fingers, and then his trembling intensified to a constant shivering. What was it Bones had told him once? That anger is a secondary emotion and if you examine it closely enough, there is always something else lurking underneath? And right now, the something else he was feeling was a deep, unsettling worry for Spock.

“You look terrible.” The soft tone of Kirk’s voice softened the bluntness of his statement.

“I was not aware of a change in my appearance.”

“Trust me,” Kirk said. “You don’t look well. Now, please, sit back down.” 

“I am returning to my quarters,” Spock said. “And I would advise you to see Doctor McCoy as soon as possible to ensure you have not been infected due to my inexcusable lack of control tonight.”

“You're staying right where you are,” Kirk said. “I’ve had most of the crew coughing in my face for three days, I’ve already been infected, believe me.”

Spock's brows drew together in concern. “Are you feeling unwell, Jim?" 

Kirk quirked a fond smile at the sound of his first name. 

“Don’t worry about me.”

Spock started to speak but did not finish as he ducked his head and tried to twist away, stifling two more sneezes. He remained bent over, pressing a clasped fist to his nose. Kirk wordlessly guided him to the edge of his bed and helped him sit. He unfolded a blanket and draped it over his shoulders. Spock huddled into it, clasping the blanket closed with one hand. His eyes closed as he gave up all illusion of control. 

"You need to rest," Kirk said as he rested his hand briefly against Spock's cheek. He wasn’t certain of the exact location of his psi points and didn’t wish to add to his discomfort. Spock met his eyes, a question on his face.

“What are you doing?” His teeth chattered as he was overcome with a wave of chills.

“Checking for fever.”

“It seems a m...most inefficient method of assessing core temperature.”

“Indulge me,” Kirk said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. 

And there it was, the sick twist of worry in his gut. He didn’t know the normal body temperature for a Vulcan, but Spock, whether the contact had been incidental or intentional, had always been cool to the touch, cool to match his calm demeanor. But tonight he felt too warm. Whatever he was suffering from, it appeared to be more serious than a simple head cold. How long had he been suppressing his symptoms?

Kirk knelt by him, eased off his boots and lined them up neatly. Spock asked no questions and made no protest. He collapsed to the surface of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as a low sound of discomfort escaped him. 

“Headache?”

Spock remained silent for a moment as a hard shudder shook him and then he sighed. 

“Affirmative.”

Kirk lowered the light and nudged up the temperature in the room.

“Lie still, Spock,” he said. “I’m going to contact Bones.”


	2. The Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for emetophobia: nothing graphic, only a brief mention.

“Feeling rough tonight, huh, Spock?” 

At the sound of McCoy’s voice, Kirk laid aside the PADD he’d been trying and failing to read. They were the first words his CMO had spoken other than “where is he?” since his arrival. He held his breath, waiting. When the response came, it was delivered in a shaky and hesitant voice, very much unlike Spock. 

“I fail to understand how the texture of my skin pertains to my current physical condition.” 

Kirk heard McCoy chuckle.

“Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” the doctor said, the only other sound the whirr of his diagnostic scanner. 

Kirk smiled to himself despite the worry that gripped him. If Spock was trying to banter with Bones, perhaps he wasn’t quite as ill as he looked. He shook his head and tried to focus again, flipping through duty rosters and daily logs, hoping to distract himself from what was happening in the other room. When Bones walked through to retrieve his medikit, Kirk jumped to his feet, captain’s duties forgotten.   
  
“How is he, Bones?”

“Miserable,” McCoy said, not looking up as he retrieved a hypospray, two medication vials and a small bottle. He muttered to himself as he primed the hypospray and slipped one of the vials into the injector. Then he glanced over at Kirk and gave him a wry smile. “You’re a bundle of nerves tonight, Jim. Relax.” 

“A little professional advice?” Kirk said. “Telling a person to relax almost never makes them feel more relaxed. Answer my question.”

McCoy blew out a breath before he spoke. “He has the same cold that’s been going around the ship. Nothing serious. I examined him before alpha shift today and thought he would have shrugged it off by now, Vulcan super immunity and all that. But--”

Kirk threw his hands out in an impatient gesture. “But?”

McCoy frowned deeply as he continued. “He’s started running a fever, which concerns me. By and large, a fever in a human isn’t worrisome; it’s an adaptive behavior, helps kill the virus. But a fever in a Vulcan is almost unheard of.”

“How so?” Kirk steeled himself for a medical lecture. There was no stopping Bones when he warmed to his subject.

“Vulcan is a desert climate, so most endemic viruses there thrive in high temperatures, the higher the better,” he explained. “It takes very cold temperatures to kill these particular viruses and as a result, Vulcans usually experience a paradoxical drop in core temperature when they're ill. You following?” 

Kirk shook his head. "No. But please continue." He trusted his CMO and his medical expertise and McCoy often needed to put his thoughts into words to puzzle it all out. 

“Now with Spock here, it gets complicated. We isolated the virus, and it’s a simple HRV, single-strand RNA, a human rhinovirus. ‘Human’ being the operative word. Spock has both a human and a Vulcan immune system battling it out right now, and unfortunately, his human side is winning."

"Why is it unfortunate? Human rhinovirus, the human part of his immune system takes care of the virus, he recovers. Unless I'm missing something."

McCoy gave a wry smile, a hint of regret in his eyes. "Spock's body, the human part I mean, is just going to keep pumping out the pyrogens to try to raise his core temperature high enough to kill the virus. But that temperature is much too high for a Vulcan; if we can't bring it under control, we’re risking--” 

The sound of a low moan filled the room before he could finish his sentence. Kirk stared after McCoy as he turned and hurried in the other direction. What? What were they risking?

“I’d best see to my patient,” McCoy said over his shoulder.

Kirk followed closely behind, stopping short of the bed where Spock lay, shivering violently. He had one arm thrown across his eyes and his other hand twisted restlessly into the blanket as he fought a fierce internal battle. 

McCoy perched on the edge of the bed, keeping his voice low as he spoke. 

“You still with me, Spock?” 

He drew in a deep, shaky breath before speaking. “Yes.”

“Good man,” McCoy said. He placed the hypospray and vials on a nearby table and shook a small white pill out of the bottle into his palm. “Open up, please.”  
  
Spock lowered his arm, shivers still chasing themselves across his body, and regarded the doctor with a baleful look.

“F...for what purpose?”

McCoy displayed a small white tablet between thumb and forefinger. “Sublingual antiemetic.”

He shook his head. “I do not feel nauseated.”

“You will soon enough.” The doctor gestured toward the hypospray and medication vials. At Spock’s answering frown, he tried to reassure him. “I’m sorry, Spock, I know most of the stuff I give you upsets your stomach. Acinolyathin isn’t any different. But the antiemetic will get you through the worst of the side effects.” 

“Doctor, I--

“Enough, Spock,” McCoy said, his voice changing from wheedling to stern. “There are no other options. It's been a long day and I'd prefer to not mop the floors in here after you've vomited. So either open up or I’ll hold your nose closed and force the pill down your throat. Your choice.” He smiled as Spock obediently opened his mouth and closed his eyes. “There we go,” McCoy said, dropping the tablet in. “Under your tongue.”

The doctor removed the hypospray from its casing, popped in the medication vial and calibrated the dosage with one thumb. Spock lay still, a grimace on his face as the bitter medicine dissolved. 

“Let’s sit you up for a minute,” McCoy said. “Jim, could you lend a hand?”

Kirk had been standing a few feet away, watching everything unfold and now he jumped at the chance to assist. He leaned over the bed, eased an arm around Spock’s shoulders and helped him sit forward. Heat radiated from his first officer's body like a furnace and Spock leaned his head against Kirk's shoulder, too weak to help himself. 

Kirk's grip on him tightened, a protective instinct, accompanied by the helpless feeling of fighting an invisible enemy. He rested his cheek briefly against the top of Spock's head. Flashes of emotion, unbidden and unexpected, raced through him - frustration, shame, anxiety, disgust - all tumbling over each other and gone in an instant. 

"I have you," Kirk whispered. He wanted nothing more than to continue holding him in his arms like this, providing what comfort he could give, but not here, not in front of Bones, and not while Spock was ill. He would never allow it if he were well. 

There was a prolonged hiss of the hypospray. “How’s your stomach feeling?” McCoy asked.

Spock took a deep breath and shook his head, his throat working as he swallowed. 

“Give it a few more minutes, you’ll be feeling better soon.” To Kirk, he said softly. “You can let him go now, Jim.”

Kirk lowered Spock gently to the surface of the bed where he lay uncomfortably, one hand pressed into his midsection. Kirk remained where he stood, his hands hovering over him, reluctant to break the contact. Spock coughed once and then retched and Kirk looked toward McCoy, a pleading expression on his face.

"Can't you do something for him?" 

“He’ll be fine, the vertrazine will kick in soon,” McCoy said at Kirk's stricken look. “He just needs quiet. Can we talk in the other room?”

Kirk busied himself in the small kitchen area. Between the endangered survey mission and his overriding concern for Spock, he was feeling emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He wanted a drink, but his throat felt too raw for synthehol. A cup of hot tea, that would do the trick, something warm and comforting. 

“Tea?” he asked, proffering a second cup to McCoy. 

“No thanks.” The doctor leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, heaving a tired sigh.

When the brew was ready, Kirk took a small sip and frowned. As comforting as the drink sounded, the taste always disappointed him. He joined his CMO at the desk, taking the seat across from him. 

"Well, Doctor? Report."

“Spock is in no danger at the moment," McCoy said. "he's just sick as a pup."

Kirk quirked an eyebrow at this, a habit he'd picked up from someone. He resolved to file that particular maxim away for a another time, it was sure to come in handy.

McCoy continued. "His cold symptoms are manageable. Annoying but nothing to be concerned about. I'm more worried about the fever right now. If these were normal circumstances, I'd admit him to Sickbay for observation for a few days." 

Kirk tried another sip of tea and gave up, pushing the cup to the side. "But these are not normal circumstances."

McCoy shook his head. "Sickbay is packed right now and my staff have their hands full. On top of that, the antiemetic I administered will make him drowsy. I'd like to spare him any embarrassment if he finds he’s unable to manage his emotions while he's medicated." McCoy got to his feet. Along with talking to himself, pacing a room sometimes helped him think. "My second choice would be to keep him where he is for the night, let him sleep or meditate or whatever he can manage and then reassess his condition in the morning…”

“And? I see no problem with that.”

“Well, I do," McCoy said, turning to face Kirk. "You’re the captain of this ship and at risk of infection yourself if he stays here tonight.”

Kirk laughed, not from amusement, but at the irony of the situation. “I think that particular ship has sailed.”

Without a word, McCoy retrieved his diagnostic scanner from his pocket and kneeled near Kirk's chair. He ran the scanner across his forehead, then vertically down his neck and torso. “Symptoms?”

“Nothing serious. Scratchy throat, slight headache." Kirk shrugged. "Don’t give me that look, Bones. I don't mind having him here. I owe him that much.”

McCoy straightened, studying the captain for a moment.

"I won't try to talk you out of it, but It's important we stay on top of the fever," he said. "You think you're up to it? You'll have to check on him throughout the night, dose him up again if his temperature spikes."

Kirk nodded. "Just tell me what to do."

McCoy flipped his medikit open and set three vials on the surface between them. "Acinolyathin," he explained. "It's a powerful anti-inflammatory. I administered a whopping dose earlier which should keep his fever in check for a few hours, give his immune system a chance to catch up. But he'll likely need a few more doses until the crisis has passed."

"Understood," Kirk said, picking up one of the vials to study it. "I think I remember my way around a hypospray." 

"He'll sleep for a while yet but keep a close eye on him," McCoy said. "If his temperature goes back up, he may act restless or complain about feeling achy or unusually cold."

Kirk raised both eyebrows, hoping it properly conveyed his sense of incredulity at the notion of Spock complaining about anything.

McCoy smiled and shook his head. "You're right, he won't say a word, so watch him for any signs of discomfort. If he gets the chills again, it's a sure sign he needs another dose, no matter how much he protests. And Jim," At this, McCoy's face turned serious. "If he gets through all three vials and his fever persists, I want you to contact me immediately." 

Kirk nodded again. He understood the gravity of the situation.

McCoy placed the small amber bottle on the table next to the hypospray vials. "These are the antiemetic tablets I forced on him earlier. Something about a hypospray always makes him sick and if you've never seen a Vulcan throw up, well, it's not a pretty sight." The doctor shook his head. "The pills are long-acting but if he experiences any breakthrough nausea, he can have another."

"Anything else?"

McCoy shook his head. "I'm going to look in on him before I leave and then he's all yours." They both approached the bed, taking careful steps so as not to disturb Spock. He lay on his side, snuggled into a pile of blankets with only the very top of his head showing, his breathing deep and even. 

"Aw, now isn't that sweet?" McCoy whispered. "I thought Spock would sleep at attention, not all curled up like a kitty cat."

Kirk could not help the warm bloom of affection in his chest as he watched his first officer. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed beside him, lose himself in oblivion, but he had his duties to see to.

Bones activated his scanner, the soft thrum as it worked the only sound in the room. He tucked the scanner away when he finished and crossed his arms, studying Spock with a slight frown. "He's holding his own. Temperature hasn't dropped as much as I'd hoped but it isn't rising." In his sleep, Spock murmured and turned over, settling again. 

Bones moved away from the bed, motioning for Kirk to follow. 

"Looks like those meds hit him hard," he said, keeping his voice low. "When he wakes, see if he'll drink anything. Some of that Vulcan spice swill he enjoys or anything he wants to keep him hydrated." He busied himself packing away his equipment, then latched his medikit and slung it over his shoulder. "Contact me if anything comes up tonight. Otherwise I'll check in on both of you in the morning."

As the door slid open, McCoy paused and turned back toward the captain. "It's going to be a long night, Jim. Don't neglect your own health fussing over Spock."

"Aye, sir." Kirk gave a mock salute. "And thank you."

He could manage a long night, as many as it took, as long as he knew Spock would recover.


	3. Contact

After McCoy left, Kirk wandered restlessly through his quarters. He disassembled the chessboard and set all the pieces in their case. He dumped out the unconsumed tea and rinsed the cup. For a while he tried sitting on the couch nearby, lights lowered, doing his best to concentrate on a book. Nothing kept his hands or his mind occupied for very long, his thoughts all centered on Spock, who slept without moving and made no sound. He seemed comfortable but Kirk couldn't be sure if his sleep was restful or if the medication had sedated him or if he'd slipped into a healing trance at some point. 

He scrubbed a hand down his face and yawned, then winced at the lance of pain in his throat. No denying it now, he was ill too, and growing weary. He wanted to stretch out and join Spock in sleep but he had promised Bones he would keep an eye on his patient. He would honor his promise and keep his first officer out of danger if he could. Maybe he should have insisted on having Spock treated in Sickbay, full census be damned, but he was here now, resting in Kirk's bed, and his responsibility for the night. 

Kirk stood, slapping his hands against his thighs. Not much room to move around in but maybe he’d walk a bit, get the blood moving, keep himself awake. As he paced back and forth, he stopped short as a single word entered his mind, crowding out every other thought.

_T’hy’la._

He heard the word spoken clearly, as close as if it were whispered in his ear. He did not recognize the language but the voice he heard was Spock’s - low and clear and calm. 

Kirk stepped back into the room, moving close to the bed. Spock was still sleeping, just as when he’d left him, but with signs of growing restlessness. He made soft noises of discomfort as he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. He shivered and burrowed deep into the blanket. Kirk frowned as he watched him. Wasn’t this the very thing McCoy had warned him about? The achiness, the chills, the restlessness? His fever must be rising again. 

Kirk touched his face lightly. At the contact, Spock shuddered and opened his eyes, taking Kirk in with no recognition.

"How are you feeling?" he asked in not quite a whisper. He didn't need an answer, Spock's skin burned under his touch.

Spock swallowed a few times and then coughed before he was able to speak. 

“Unwell," he finally rasped out before wincing and twitching his head away. Kirk snatched his hand back but remained where he was. 

"Did you call out just now?” he asked. The question hung in the air without an answer. "I..I thought I heard your voice." But It couldn't have been him, he was ill, he could barely speak. Had he imagined it? 

Spock rolled to his side and pushed himself into a sitting position, breath ragged from the effort. He stood and wavered, reaching out a hand blindly, searching for something to support himself against. Kirk rounded the end of the bed and grasped him around the shoulders.

“Let me go,” he said and then shivered and nearly fell. Kirk tightened his grasp, supporting his weight. “I must-- Spock trailed off weakly, raising a shaking hand to massage his forehead. Kirk had never witnessed him in such a state, his hair standing up on one side where it had rested against the pillow, clothing rumpled, a look of utter confusion on his face. Affection coupled with worry for his first officer softened his voice.

“What must you do?”

“I must…” Spock paused, brow wrinkling in thought. “...return to my quarters and meditate.” 

“Belay that, Mister,” Kirk said, taking two steps forward, carrying Spock with him. He stumbled, nearly falling and Kirk eased him down until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. “We need to take care of a few things before you have permission to leave.” He had no intention of letting Spock go anywhere in this state. He could barely hold himself upright.

Kirk backed out of the room, never looking away from where his first officer sat, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, head lowered. He whirled and grabbed the hypospray and medication from the table where Bones had left it, hands shaking as he fumbled the vial trying to insert it. It would not latch, why wouldn't it latch? Kirk glanced over his shoulder, watching as Spock tried in vain to stand again. _Come on, damn it._ At this rate, Spock would be out the door, wandering the corridors if he couldn't manage this. Kirk swore under his breath and flipped the vial over, sighing with relief as it clicked into place. The easy part, although not easy at all, was over. 

Spock glanced up as Kirk approached the bed, his eyes narrowing, mouth turned down in a grim line when he spotted the hypospray in his hand.

“No, I will not allow it.” His words were clipped, angry.

“I’m sorry, Spock, this is necessary.”

As Kirk reached toward him, Spock grabbed his arm to stop him, his strength formidable even in his weakened condition. Kirk struggled against him, twisting his wrist in every direction to try to free himself. Spock threw him away in one emphatic movement, knocking Kirk off balance. A wave of sudden emotion rolled over Kirk then and twisted in his gut - confusion, apprehension, dread - along with a rising sense of nausea. He pressed a hand to his mouth, struggling for control. 

"You will allow me to administer this hypospray, Mister Spock.” he said. “That’s an order."

 _That’s an order_ , those were the magic words cutting through all the delirium and confusion. Despite his violent and unrelenting chills, Spock tried to straighten his back. Kirk hated doing it to him. Using his authority as captain felt like a dirty trick when his first officer, his friend, was so ill. And although he did not need to explain his actions, he was doing it for Spock's own good, Kirk found himself explaining anyway. 

"You're very sick, ” he said softly. “It's a human virus and your Vulcan physiology isn't handling it well." He motioned with the hypospray. "You need another dose of this medication to keep your fever under control." 

Spock stared straight ahead, chin lifted. He would not disobey an order but his expression communicated his distaste.

This was no good. Kirk needed to reach him. He wanted his cooperation, not blind acquiescence. The word came to Kirk’s mind suddenly, out of desperation. He hoped Spock would understand.

_T’hy’la._

Spock’s eyes opened wide and he searched Kirk’s face, shaking his head in bewilderment. Kirk smiled, trying to reassure him.

_T’hy’la. Yes. Let me help you._

Kirk didn’t know why he had heard Spock in his mind earlier, how he was sharing his emotions, or why he suddenly had the same ability to reach him. But none of that mattered. He’d gotten through. 

With a short nod, his weight heavy against Kirk, Spock used two fingers to pull down the neck of his shirt, exposing the upper part of his shoulder. He waited with his eyes squeezed shut and lower lip caught between his teeth. Kirk felt sudden tears prickling at the corners of his eyes at this demonstration of trust and he blinked them away. 

“I’ll be quick,” Kirk said. He depressed the button on the hypospray and Spock shuddered deeply as it hissed against his skin. “That’s it, we’re done.”

Spock murmured something Kirk could not hear and began listing to the other side. Kirk supported his head with one hand and settled him back against the pillow, hefting his legs up so he was lying flat. He moved to the other side of the bed, untangling limbs that were splayed awkwardly and floated a blanket over Spock, tucking it in firmly.

 _Crisis averted. Stand-down from red alert._

And with the adrenaline rush over, a familiar sick and shaky feeling overcame Kirk. His vision blurred, his legs grew weak and a buzzing sound filled his ears. He needed to rest, and very soon. The bed was tiny, barely enough room for one, but even a sliver of space was better than a hard-backed couch or an uncomfortable chair. And the prospect of a few hours of sleep, at least until the next dose of medication was due, overcame any hesitation Kirk felt at lying next to his first officer in the same bed. There was nothing illicit about the act; they were both ill, Spock was nearly asleep again and hopefully he would be soon.

Mind made up, Kirk pulled his uniform shirt over his head, toed off his boots and left them in a heap. He sat carefully on the edge and slowly reclined, staying as far away as he could, hugging the very edge of the thin mattress. He couldn’t help the deep sigh that escaped him when his head finally hit the pillow. Spock stirred at the sound of it.

“Who is there?” 

“It’s me, Spock. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Spock rolled to his other side, and lifted his head, brows knitted in confusion and then his face relaxed. “Jim,” he said. 

And how Kirk loved that voice, the calm in the midst of chaos, cutting through heightened emotion to command, but he especially loved the gentle softness speaking his first name, an intimacy meant for him alone. 

Spock burrowed his head back into the blanket. Kirk tugged gently at the edge of the cover, wishing he’d thought to grab another before lying down. The room felt chilly but increasing the ambient temperature seemed too much trouble at the moment. Kirk met no resistance and pulled the blanket as far as he dared to try to cover himself. There wasn’t much to spare and it only made him feel colder. Kirk shivered, which set off a sudden cascade of shivering. Was he running a fever now?

Spock inched closer and threw the blanket fully across Kirk. The warmth radiating from him was soothing, relaxing, and the shaking chills eased. Kirk sighed, the first full exhale he had allowed himself all evening. Spock pressed himself tightly against Kirk’s back, one arm encircling him with no awkwardness, no apologies...just the simple act of seeking comfort and the sweet satisfaction of providing it. Morning would come but for the moment, the ship was in no danger, there were no duties to perform, there was only this room, this bed and a perfect calm enveloping them both. 


	4. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for emetophobia: nothing graphic, just a few brief mentions.

Kirk woke from a deep but troubled sleep, gradually, painfully, like surfacing from deep underwater. His first sensation when he opened his eyes was the absence of warmth beside him. Memories filtered in slowly as his head began to clear. Spock. Last night. He was ill. He'd been here and now was gone...gone where exactly? And when? Kirk rolled over with a groan. His limbs felt heavy, joints aching as he straightened and waited with head bowed for the dizziness to pass.

He cracked one eye and closed it again at the answering throb of dull pain in his temples. Duty shift on the bridge today. Was it today? He'd lost all track of time and the nearest chronometer was on his desk, in the next room, only a few steps away. At the pace he was moving, he would reach it in approximately two hours.

He massaged the bridge of his nose in response to a sudden burning sensation in his sinuses and barely had time to bury his face in the bend of his elbow before he sneezed loudly.

"Ugh," he muttered. "Bless m--"

"Bless you." 

Kirk turned and took a few steps, bracing himself against the edge of the doorway. Spock sat at the small desk, opposite the computer, his hands cradling a mug, his eyebrows raised as he waited for Kirk to speak. At some point he'd donned his command tunic and boots, not a hair was out of place, and his expression was placid, if a bit fatigued. It seemed impossible, after such a long night of broken rest and rising fever and hyposprays and stomach upset, for him to look so normal today. 

"You must be feeling better." 

"I am improved," Spock said, setting the mug aside. "Though not yet recovered." 

"How nice for you." Kirk took a deep sniff, and although not much was making it through his stuffy nose, he thought he detected a familiar scent. "Do I smell coffee?" 

"Yes." Spock nodded toward an identical mug on a tray, sitting next to a covered dish, probably more of those unappetizing food cubes that held no interest for him, even on a good day. "Yeoman Rand stopped by this morning."

Kirk frowned. For all Rand knew, the Captain and First Officer had met for an early-morning briefing. No reason for her to think otherwise. But why had she brought two cups of coffee? His gaze traveled from the cup to Spock's face. He gave a noncommittal shrug. If the crew were going to gossip, they would gossip. Kirk ran his hand through his hair, his scalp itchy from dried sweat, and sank into the chair across from him.

Spock stood, tugged at his tunic to straighten it, retrieved his communicator from a nearby shelf, checked its settings and clipped it to his uniform. 

Kirk found himself watching it all with his mouth hanging open, the ritual mesmerizing in a way. He tried to speak but a sudden deep ache in his chest triggered a cough, and he took a wavering breath trying to bring himself under control.

Spock frowned slightly and moved the cup of coffee from the tray to a spot near his elbow, within easy reach. 

He nodded his thanks, took a hesitant sip and spluttered as the first mouthful went down. He felt the cup plucked from his hands as he gave himself over to a bout of coughing. The force of the paroxysm and the steam from the coffee loosened some of the congestion in his head and he snatched a napkin from the tray to wipe his nose as the fit passed. He glanced toward Spock who was standing with hands clasped behind his back, studying him with no change in expression. Kirk's cheeks reddened, whether from the embarrassment of being watched so intently or from a rising fever, he couldn't tell. But he felt utterly wretched and resented being stared at like an interesting lab experiment while he suffered. 

"Your condition is worsening." The words were delivered in a near-monotone, with none of the softness or intimacy of the night before.

"What gave it away?" Kirk swiped at his streaming eyes, dropped the crumpled napkin to the table and retrieved the coffee cup, taking a long swallow this time. 

"You should also eat something."

"Not hungry." Kirk knew he sounded petulant, because he felt petulant, but he didn't care.

"Irrelevant. You must maintain proper hydration and nutritional intake during the course of your illness to keep up your strength and ensure the proper functioning of your immune system."

"Weren't you on your way out?" Kirk's words came out short and clipped. He didn't understand his anger. This was Spock, none of his behavior came as a surprise, why did he suddenly feel hurt by it? 

Spock nodded, turned and took a few steps toward the door then hesitated before he turned back. 

"Dr. McCoy has asked me to report to Sickbay for an examination before I return to my post on the bridge today." His tone suggested it was a question rather than a statement.

"Yes, of course," Kirk said, waving a hand. "Are you sure you're feeling up to it?" 

"That will be for the doctor to decide. I am at least able to control all the physical manifestations of my illness at present."

Kirk had no ready answer for that. "That's...good? Carry on, then." 

With a short nod, Spock left. Kirk removed the metal lid from the covered container, glanced over the brightly-colored cubes, then sighed and let it fall again. He knew Spock was right, he should eat, but he had no appetite. Maybe after a shower.

* * *

"Thanks for coming in, Jim." Dr. McCoy spoke over his shoulder as he rummaged in the pharmaceutical cabinet near the examination table.

"You didn't give me much choice." 

"CMO overrides the captain in medical matters, you know that. And you sounded like absolute hell when I contacted you. Were you planning on actually stopping by any time today or were you just going to amble on up to the bridge and collapse there?" McCoy turned back, priming a hypospray with one thumb.

"I think we both know the answer to that.” Kirk eyed the instrument uneasily, his mind going back to the previous night. “What do you have there?"

"Combination of an antiviral and acinolyathin, same stuff I gave Spock. Now hold still."

Kirk shuddered at the sensation of cold air against his skin as McCoy administered the medication. 

"There you go,” he said. “Give that a few minutes to take effect. You might feel a little sleepy, so just lie back if you do. Can't have you falling off the table." 

And then, unexpectedly, Kirk felt more than sleepy, he felt woozy, a sick hollow feeling settling in his core, weakness spreading along his limbs and an unmistakable rising sensation of nausea. 

"Bones, I, uh..." He swallowed hard. 

Doctor McCoy's eyes widened as he took in his appearance. "You've gone white as a ghost, Jim." 

"I feel...odd." It was all he trusted himself to say without losing what little breakfast he'd managed.. 

McCoy helped lower him to the bed and elevated his feet. He opened a drawer, retrieved a small bottle and shook out a familiar-looking white pill into his hand. 

"I swear, you're as bad as Spock. Get that under your tongue," he instructed, tapping Kirk on the chin and dropping in the tablet when he opened his mouth. "Let it dissolve, don't chew it. And take some deep breaths." 

He plunked a kidney-shaped dish near Kirk’s head. Kirk startled at the noise and movement and looked quizzically at him. 

"Emesis basin," McCoy explained. "If you have to throw up, I sure hope your aim is better than your first officer's was." 

Kirk frowned, trying to parse the meaning of McCoy's last sentence.

"Are you trying to tell me Spock vomited?" 

"Sure enough, and all over Nurse Chapel." He gave a wry smile and shook his head. "He had some bright idea about returning to duty today and insisted on a dose of acinolyathin to get him through. That and dehydration did him in. Probably hasn't had anything to eat or drink in days. Nearly went down when he tried to stand. "

"He lectured me on that very subject this morning." Kirk was aware he was slurring his words but his stomach was beginning to settle and he felt too comfortable to correct himself. 

McCoy scoffed. "Well, he would, wouldn't he? Anyway, he's tucked in all nice and cozy now and he's receiving fluids. Dr. M'Benga is keeping him under observation for a while. "

"But, Bones, he was..." Kirk frowned, trying to collect his thoughts and not doze off in the middle of a sentence. "This morning, he looked normal. He acted completely like himself."

"Yeah, he nearly had me fooled too. But trying to keep those mental barriers up took a huge toll on his strength. He couldn't sustain it for long." McCoy patted him on the shoulder and smiled. "Don't worry, Jim, Spock's going to be fine. And so are you, but right now you're drowsy from the medication. Take a little nap, I'll check on you later." 

Kirk draped an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the stark lighting in the sickbay. A nap didn't seem possible, not with so much on his mind. 

_T'hy'la?_

He grasped the edges of the biobed and rolled to his side, propping himself on one elbow, eyes darting around the room. No one was nearby. And it was unmistakably Spock's voice in his mind, the same as last night. But this time the tone was questioning, hesitant and slightly anxious.

Kirk hopped down from the biobed and peered around the corner. Dr. McCoy had his back to him, muttering to himself as he worked his way through a mountain of medical records. As he crept past, Kirk thought how unbecoming it was for the captain of a starship to have to tiptoe around, but he needed to see Spock and no one was going to stop him. 

After several inadvertent visits to ill crew members, he finally found Spock in an isolated corner, the overhead lights darkened, a curtained screen providing some measure of privacy between him and the other patients. 

"Jim." Although he lay with his face turned toward the wall, he spoke Kirk's name with absolute surety. He knew he was there.

"Yes, Spock. It's me."

"Come closer."

Kirk stepped to the edge of the biobed. Spock appeared much as he had that morning, unruffled, in complete control. 

"Give me your hand," he said.

Kirk obeyed without hesitation, resisting only slightly when Spock moved his hand to his face, positioning Kirk's thumb under his chin, then moving the tip of Kirk's index finger to touch the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, the other fingers resting along the angle of his jaw. 

"Spock, what are you--?" 

"Do not worry, Captain." 

Kirk jumped at the sudden voice nearby. He'd been so focused on what was happening, he hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized Dr. M'Benga, a calm, gentle, bear of a man and the Enterprise's expert on Vulcan physiology. Spock was in good hands. The doctor smiled and entered a sequence on the biobed controls. 

"Commander Spock knows what he is doing," Dr. M'Benga said. "He's been having great difficulty trying to achieve _tow-kath_ this morning. Assistance is sometimes needed from a willing companion, one whose mind is already open and receptive to the other." 

The doctor paused then, glancing up at the telemetry monitor with a slight frown on his face. Kirk sensed it was more to buy time to think of what to say rather than any concern for Spock's vital signs. 

"That is you, Captain,” he clarified. “He is drawing on your strength and on your mutual regard for one another." 

Kirk quirked a corner of his mouth. His strength? He'd never felt less strong in his life, but if it would help Spock he'd do what he could. As far as their mutual regard was concerned, he'd hoped it wasn't so obvious but then again, Dr. M'Benga was remarkably observant and hopefully just as discreet.

Spock's skin began to cool under Kirk's touch, his breathing slowing perceptibly, the tone of the pulse monitor drawing out, long pauses between each beat. 

"He is close now." 

Kirk frowned. "That didn't take long. And he's in no danger?"

"He is not. I'll monitor him closely throughout." 

A sense of well-being and peace flowed through Kirk and he sighed, his shoulders relaxing.

"Doctor, I can...I think I can sense him. In my mind, I mean. Does that sound crazy?"

Dr. M'Benga laughed at this, a pleasant rumbling sound. "Not at all, Captain. There is a channel between you now. You will be aware of him, and he of you, but it will be like--" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with ancient radio technology?"

At Kirk's nod he continued. "His mind will be only background static unless you seek out the signal, so to speak. I fear I'm not explaining myself well." 

"No, not at all." Kirk gestured with his head to where his hand still rested against Spock's face. "Do I still need to--?"

"If you can sense him, as you say, the connection has been completed. It will endure until I bring him out of _tow-kath_." 

Kirk lifted his hand slowly, allowing his fingertips to brush lightly against the top of Spock's head. If Dr. M'Benga noticed, he did not mention it. 

"I do not like to ask it of you, Captain, not when you are unwell yourself--"

"What is it, doctor?"

"Are you willing to stay with Commander Spock? It is only with your assistance he was able to enter a healing trance and he may require your presence to maintain this state."

That was all that Kirk had to hear. Spock needed him.

"I'm not going anywhere." 

* * *

_First at the periphery of his thoughts and then encompassing him...emptiness, a pure white void. As he concentrated, Kirk noticed movement, subtle at first, then unceasing waves of pure white sand from horizon to horizon, shifting and undulating, forming and reforming. He lingered there in a half-waking dream, barely aware of the activity and noise surrounding him, presences floating in and out of his perception, far-off voices speaking but making no sense. Minutes passed, hours, and at last the arid desert wind calmed and the sand settled and all was still..._

"Captain Kirk?"

The voice came from far away and all around him, and the white desert sands began to recede from his consciousness. He lifted his head from the surface of the biobed, blinking furiously, the kind face of Dr. M'Benga swimming into soft focus.

"Hello." Kirk tried to sit up, his breath catching when a wave of dizziness hit him.. 

"Take your time." Dr. M'Benga's strong, competent hands helped him sit back in his chair, then he poured a glass of water and guided it to his hands. Kirk drank thirstily before he could say any more.

"How long have we...has he...?"

The doctor glanced over at the chronometer. "Six hours."

"And was that long enough?"

"We shall see. Commander Spock's vital signs have been normal throughout and he's showing some signs of awakening on his own." Dr. M'Benga sounded unbothered, almost casual and then his tone turned serious. "Captain I must warn you, the reawakening process can appear brutal to anyone not accustomed to it. You may not wish to see it." 

"What do you do, punch him awake?" Kirk chuckled at his own joke, hoping Dr. M'Benga would join in the laughte and reassure him that the process wasn't that bad, but the doctor's face remained grave. Kirk's stomach dropped. "My god, you do. Is there no other way?"

"We could attempt a different process, if you are willing to cooperate. It is an untested method and may not work, but these are unique circumstances."

"Anything, just tell me what to do." 

"Place your hand on the psi points, if you can remember them."

Kirk rested his right hand on the left side of Spock's face, his thumb against the divot under his lip and then he hesitated. Dr. M'Benga repositioned Kirk's first finger to touch the middle of the cheekbone, guiding his third finger to the angle of the jaw, his other fingers resting along Spock's neck. 

The doctor nodded his approval and stepped back. He took a deep breath and then in one sudden movement, curled his hand into a fist and twisted his knuckles into the center of Spock's chest. Spock's eyes flew open and beside him Kirk gasped, as much from the shared sensation of pain as the abrupt cessation of mental contact. 

Spock winced and rubbed his chest. "Thank you, doctor, that was most effective."

Dr. M'Benga hummed softly to himself while he checked the telemetry monitor and tapped information into the bedside computer. "I will leave you now," he said. "Lie quietly and do not exert yourself while you're coming around."

Spock lay with hands clasped on his stomach, his head turned toward Kirk, eyes closed and the barest suggestion of a smile on his lips. 

So many questions ran through Kirk's mind, so much he wanted to know and needed to ask. He settled on a simple question spoken out of the side of his mouth, feeling a little like an errant schoolboy who might be caught out for talking. 

"How are you feeling?"

He watched the gentle rise and fall of Spock's breathing for a few moments before he responded. 

"I feel very well, thank you, Captain." He opened his eyes, brow furrowing slightly as he focused on Kirk. "Has your condition improved?"

"Me?" Kirk shook his head. He'd not even thought about his own illness but now that he took stock, although he didn't exactly feel healthy, he didn't feel quite as sick as before. "Yes, I suppose it has. Bones gave me something earlier and--" His voice trailed off. Was it the medication that worked or had it been their connection, the shared healing trance? Was he capable of healing himself in that manner?

"Spock, I don't know if you feel like talking. But something's been bothering me."

Spock raised his eyebrows slightly, the look on his face expectant. Kirk didn't know how to broach the subject gently so as was typical for him, he jumped right in.

"Last night, when you were in my quarters, I thought I heard your voice in my head. And I swear I could feel what you were feeling, all the illness and discomfort. You were so angry. And I felt it all."

Spock blinked, humiliation visible in his eyes for just a moment before it passed.

"It's quite possible you did," he said. "I was feverish and had little control over my emotions. I apologize, Captain. It was a most regrettable intrusion."

"I didn't mind." Kirk spoke softly, almost reverently. "I didn't mind sharing that with you." 

"It is kind of you to say so." 

"I wasn't trying to be kind, Spock." 

And at this, Spock searched Kirk's face, his expression one of uncertainty. Kirk wasn't ready to let him off the hook yet, despite his unease.

"I'm sorry, I know you're trying to rest and I'll leave you alone soon, but...when I heard you in my mind, last night and again this morning, you spoke one word, an unfamiliar one." 

"Which was?"

Kirk hesitated, trying to get the pronunciation right. " _T_ _'hy'la_. Is it a Vulcan word?"

"It is."

"What does it mean?"

Spock frowned, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, giving a small shake of his head. 

"Well, what is it, Spock? Is it a terrible insult? Are we going to have to convene a court-martial or something?"

Spock sighed. "It is an endearment of sorts, reserved for one meaningful individual. One translation is 'friend' or 'brother.'" 

"You were calling for me?"

"Yes. I could sense you but could not feel your presence nearby."

"So you called for me," he mused, "using a Vulcan endearment?"

"Apparently."

At this, Kirk could not stop himself, he reached for Spock's hand and clasped it tightly. Spock did not try to pull away and rested their entwined hands against his chest. 

"You said 'one translation.' Is there another?"

And at this, Spock looked directly into Kirk's eyes and it was as if the entire universe paused, awaiting the answer.

"Beloved."

Kirk's breath caught at the single word, spoken with no artifice and no sense of embarrassment. He repeated it back softly.

"And did you understand what you were saying to me?" he asked. "I mean, you were very sick last night and heavily medicated, maybe it was a mistake or--"

“Jim." The sound of his name stopped his nervous chatter. Spock lifted his other hand, his thumb tracing a gentle circle against Kirk's cheek. "It was not a mistake."

At the sudden sound of voices growing louder, Spock turned his head and listened intently. He gently released Kirk's hand. 

"Dr. M'Benga will check on me soon," he said. 

Kirk nodded. "And I need to see Bones before he hunts me down."

"You will be returning to your quarters?"

"I'm off duty, don't know where else I'd go."

"Then I will join you later, if I am able and if you will allow me. You are still in need of care and I wish to, as you say, return the favor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all. A rather ambiguous ending, just as I like them. I could have written chapters and chapters more, ignoring the goings-on of the ship and allowing these two all the sweet possibilities of the future, but there are other stories waiting for me. The rest is up to your imagination. Whatever you would like to have happened, well, that's what happened. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read my story. If you left kudos and/or a comment, please know that I treasure each and every one. I write sickfics as a coping method and to comfort myself and I write the scenarios I enjoy, canon and realism notwithstanding. I'm always pleasantly surprised (okay, thrilled) when others enjoy my stories as well. I never expected so very many of you. 
> 
> I do have a Tumblr blog (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/treksickfic) and I sometimes take prompts but I'm a slow writer. If you would ever like to connect, talk about all things Trek and/or sickfic, maybe I'll see you there.


End file.
